at the end there was loneliness

The place was filling up quickly as the rain outside started to fall down louder and stronger. People were rushing in, closing their umbrellas one after the other and brushing off their coats from the cold raindrops. Most seats were taken in only minutes and Dan was glad he already had one. He was sitting at the far end of the bar, draining his fourth glass of whiskey and motioning to the bartender for a refill. His last months had all been the same – plain and grey, each day ending on a stool at the bar, at best. Other times, he would end up under the table, or unwillingly out the door. Tonight of all nights, he hoped to remain inside, protected from the raging storm. He flinched slightly at the sight of the falling lightning outside as he rocked the ice cubes in his fifth whiskey. In for another long night.

***

Dan grew up in Franklin – a town that made, brewed, talked about, drank, and even dreamed about beer. People there cared for it the way they have barely cared for anything else. The whole county knew the joke “You drink like a Frankliner” that had slowly lost its humorous edge over the years, and had turned into a kind of a modern-day insult. And yet, as much as people badmouthed about Frankliners’ unacceptable drinking habits, they never admitted that they personally bought stacks and stacks of beer that they secretly gulped down every time they felt uneasy. Frankly, it wasn’t much of a secret but they liked to think of it that way; it somehow made them feel better about themselves.

Dan used to watch all this from the side. He knew that the rest of the county could not live without the beer of Frankliners, but he, as one, was never fascinated by it. His father had owned a bottling factory for as long as he could remember and he was raised with the concept that he could look at the beer but never touch it. And, for one reason or another, he was fine with it. He trusted his father’s judgment, and helped him with the business without once tasting the beer he would bottle for a good 10 hours a day.

Nobody ever managed to grasp why he never tried it. “Such a gift and you’re wasting it,” people would tell him. He would look away without a single word and would keep working.

*

Dan grew up with Matt and Phil next door. They were brothers around his age. The three of them had been inseparable since the first time they rode bikes together. They would roam the streets, pull harmless pranks on the passers-by, tell jokes that only they could make sense of, and laugh until the muscles on their face would start to ache. Phil and Matt were the best friends one could ever have.

They were there for Dan when his mother died unexpectedly leaving him and his father with the heavy burden to wipe out the pain from the loss and move on. The brothers did their best to distract him. They would call him on a Saturday afternoon and ask him to help them build a tree house in the forest or to race to the bridge and make the last one to get there jump into the lake underneath. Dan never said it, but their efforts always helped, and he was thankful.

Years went by with the trio spending their days together until one day Matt, the elder of the brothers, came to Dan’s house with a bottle of beer in his hand, and a slightly inattentive smile.

“C’mon, let’s go for a drink by the lake,” he said. “Phil will be there in five, he went to grab some more beer; he’s very excited.”

Dan knew that Phil was anything but excited and that is was Matt’s idea to get into drinking in the first place. Reluctantly, he agreed to join but refused to have any beer. Look but not touch, his father had taught him.  And Dan knew he was right.

Days passed with Matt stopping by his front door every afternoon with a bottle of beer that he cracked open the moment Dan turned the key in the lock. Matt gained pleasure from seeing his friend’s critical expression every time he went for a sip from the bottle, pouring more alcohol into his body.

“It’s addictive,” Dan would tell him. “Let it go or you never will.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Matt would reply and get all serious for a moment. “I can’t let it go, not anymore.” Then he would burst out in laughter and take a minute to take in the pleasure of having mocked his friend. “If beer doesn’t work for you, we can find you something stronger. Just tell me, don’t be shy.”

Dan knew beer was a sin, let alone something stronger. Whiskey, his friend had suggested that day; brandy. Dan had discarded his words with an expression verging on disgust.

The hours spent counting the empty bottles near the lake soon turned into days. The days into weeks, and then months. For a long time, he would just take in the grotesque picture of his drunken friends, desperately trying to put together a proper sentence in English. After a while, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he broke free from their grip. The next time Matt came over, Dan simply refused to open the door and remained seated in the backyard until the knocking faded, and eventually stopped. Dan breathed a sigh of relief, but even he didn’t know why: he had just lost the only friends he ever had.

*

The following weeks he spent helping his father in the factory, which proved to be the best, but perhaps also only, distraction he had. If it weren’t for his father, and the countless bottles waiting to fulfill their purpose, he would be completely alone. Social life had slowly become a mirage, so far away and so out of reach. The people who worked at the factory had their own families – once married and with children – the life of a Frankliner tended to become anything but social.

To an extent, Dan thought he could relate to that kind of existence, but then again he couldn’t tell for sure. And he didn’t bother too much to look for an answer. He focused on the factory as much as he could with one goal in mind – to help his father and care for their peaceful relationship.

And yet, he knew that this one was dated, too, like all the relationships he had had so far. His father was growing old and weak, being less and less capable of working in the factory. Fearing he might lose him, Dan pushed himself for months to do as much work as he could, hoping that it would take away the load off his father’s shoulders. Even if it did, it made no difference. His parent might have been strong but his age had slowly worn him out.

One day, Dan woke up to find his father sitting in the very chair he was in when he last heard from his friend. His father’s body was lifeless. Ironic, he remembered saying to himself. At this point he knew one thing for sure: his life was over, unless he made a change of front. He had slowly lost everything he ever loved.

The day following his father’s death, he decided to sell the business they owned in the hope that with the money he got from it, he would be able to start over. He felt the urge to move, to lay the foundation of something new. He went home that night to a place he couldn’t recognize without the presence of his father; he needed to leave. He went around, wondering what he could take with him in his new life. He went over dusty shelves and drawers but found nothing of value. When he went to the kitchen, he pulled the door of an old cupboard and it opened with a squeak. Inside was only an almost-empty bottle of whiskey. He took it out and held it in his hand. The label was ripped every here and there, so he couldn’t make the expiry date. And yet, that wasn’t the real question. Why was there a bottle of whiskey in their house in the first place? His father never drank, he had taught Dan not to drink; it must have been there for whenever they had visitors, he thought. And then it hit him: nobody had visited since his mother died over 10 years ago, but the bottle was there – barely full, and not nearly a decade old.

At once, the pain of betrayal stang him; the only person he had trusted with all his heart, had turned out to be no different from everyone else. And that person was no other but his father. In an instant, Dan heard all his parent’s promises fade away, getting sucked away by a force more powerful than any of them could handle. It had all turned out to be a lie.

He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and drained it.

***

A thunder echoed from somewhere nearby and Dan shook his head to pull himself away from the flashback. He looked around; the bar was now completely full and at places, more than 10 people had to share one table. The chatter from around filled his head. He seemed to be the only one who had no one to talk to. And yet, he paid no attention; it was nothing out of the ordinary. He emptied his glass of whiskey, and waved at the bartender. To his surprise, the man was already bringing him the refill.

time in a pocket

The aroma of a freshly made bouillon and a steaming hot sage tea quickly fly out the window of the aligning house. Allen frowns at the smell, knowing that that would be as close as he would get to it. It is another early morning and the mayor's family is already awake and getting ready for its typical feisty breakfast of vegetables, partridge, pigeons, and only God knows what else. The clinking of cutlery is soothing in a way and it is only to be interrupted by the roaring engine of the ice-cream truck that would, seconds later, pull over in front of the wooden gate and unload box after box of lemon sorbet – the mayor’s favorite. Ice-cream, yes – the next generation development. It’s the late 1600s and it is time for a change, and every change starts with a new taste and a new color.

For many, of course. Not for Allen. He can only see in black and white, and it’s the way of life he has chosen.

He squirms as he shuffles in his improvised bed and removes the pile of hay from under his shoulder. The wooden floor exposes him to the cold that has been lurking around all throughout the night. The tiny hut in the mayor’s backyard has never been much of a cozy dwelling, but he never expected more. At least what he has now, provides a roof over his head and for now, this should be enough.

Muscle ache is nothing unusual. The mornings have always been very gray and yet – Allen has never thought there was a better part of the day.

Slowly, he gets up and tucks in his half-torn cotton shirt deep into his trousers. They are plain and long, moth-eaten every here and there. His shoes, scattered carelessly across the narrow space, he puts on swiftly and then runs a hand through his hay-covered hair. He is good to go. 

Where to? The other end of the city.

Walking quickly through the backyard, Allen looks around to make sure there is no one in his way. The ‘masters’ were never too fond of him. He is an orphan, after all, and unlike all other children, he should be able to take care of himself while his peers go to school, play games and live a carefree childhood. “There is a reason God has made him different,” the mayor would explain every time a visitor would look out the window over the backyard and into the hut. “Not all people can be equal, some are simply better than others.” End of discussion.

Allen wouldn’t pay much attention to that. He has never lived in color like the kids his age. Instead, he lives in a place where he can only walk from one end of the grayscale to the other, and he seems to be happy with it. Many would not even bother to understand.

Sneaking out from under the wire netting going around the house, he is once more in a world that he can look at but never have. Or maybe, he doesn’t want to have it. His eyes go over the crowd, while the passers-by do the same, in an overtly critical way. Typical, but as usual, it makes him think. He will never wear any of those pure-white linen shirts with laced collars that all the noble men walk in; or these breeches tightly fastened at the waist and tucked into a brand new pair of knee-high boots. When will they ever replace his old must-reeking trousers? Seriously, when?!

Allen continues his way down the main street, zigzagging through the dense crowd of high- to very high-class people. He ignores the resentment – he has found out that this is the best way to go about the days. Also, he barely pays attention to the route anymore; his feet take him to the one place where he actually feels at home. Truth be told, he has never stepped into it but he has learned to feed his cravings by just looking from the outside. A ten-minute walk down the road and he can already see the crooked sign reading: “Th whels of tim” – the proud name of a clock-repairing shop, most of whose E-s, however, have not managed to withstand the tricks of time. Ironically enough.

“The wheels of time” is a place, one of its kind. Everyone knows about it, and so does Allen. Many people would even walk from a neighboring village and carry their massive clocks only to have them repaired at the best shop they have heard of.

The owner is a cranky little old man by the name of Herald III. Herald I. and Herald II. were never into precise craftsmanship. Both of them were quick-witted businessmen, whose skills brought the family fame and a lot of wealth. This is why, when Herald III. decided to pursue his dream of repairing clocks, his family cast him away. He wasn’t born a cranky man but his past has led him to become one.

Today, he has his own ways to go about life. Nobody is allowed to step over the threshold of his wheel palace, as long as they were not willing to pay him. Clock repairing has become the only purpose of his existence.

Every time Allen would try to get a closer look at the clocks in the shop, Herald III. would chase him away in seconds. So now, he knows what to do.

Several minutes before he reaches the shop, he goes out of his way, walks around the newly built fountain, and sits in the bushes across from “Th whels of tim.” From there, he can enjoy the view and be sure that no one would give him any skeptical looks or run after him.

Allen can’t risk to be chased away from the area. It is his dream to be an inventor. From an early age, he has been fascinated by the force of time and almost every day for three years, he would go out in the plain fields and observe the shadow that the sun leaves on the ground as it moves from east to west. Allen could tell time much earlier than most of his peers could.

And yet, he knows that he can do much more than that.

People shouldn’t need to look at the sun to know what time it is, he would think, or to be at home to look at the clock on the wall. People should be able to carry time with themselves. If he ever manages to bring his invention to life, he has decided to call it a ‘pocket watch.’ Simple and not too pompous. It would be a device that people can put in their ‘pocket’ and take out at any moment that they feel they want to ‘watch’ time.

Allen spends every day in front of the clock shop, absorbing terms like ‘center wheel jewel,’ ‘case screw,’ and ‘nickel motor barrel bridge.’ He can only guess what these are, but he knows that once he has them all at the same place, he would figure out how to work with them. Measuring time with a watch cannot be so much different from measuring it by looking at the sun; he is convinced. The key is to live in time and not through it, but only very few notice the difference. If any.

Many will say: Life is all about color. And in their own little world, they might even be right. But there will always be an Allen to tell them that they are too absorbed to look beyond. Because there will be no color without black and white; and there will be no black and white without light and darkness. There will be no light without the sun. The sun is a timekeeper, exactly like you. Just look in your pocket.

together without me

They had known forever; or what seemed to be forever. From the first time he had put the car keys in the freezer and had immediately forgotten about it. He never remembered and was genuinely surprised when one day, Mary found them lying between the minced meat and the chicken breast, covered in frost.

They have been married for 31 years, Mary and he. It would be 32 in two months and nine days, but Mary is not sure he would hang in there for that much longer. It has been over six years now since they had received the bad news and the doctors had given them the heart-breaking 2 to 4 years max. Six has been a miracle as much as it has been an endless nightmare. Waking up every morning, not knowing whether he would open his eyes for one more day, if he would breathe in the fresh morning air one more time. The fear of realizing that maybe this once he had indeed left her alone. Mary had been struggling with accepting their fate and yet, she couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down over and over again, soaking her pillow every single night. Could he hear her cry? She had asked herself many times, but that used to be way back when she still believed she could make a difference. He didn’t even remember his name anymore. Rob! Your name is Rob, she had screamed at him in desperation some days ago. She was helpless.

She sighed loudly and a sob made her breathing more uneven than before. She paid no attention and closed her eyes. But she didn’t know that at that very moment his heart was breaking. Every night, he would hear her cry and burn with the urge to comfort her, to tell her that none of this is worth her tears.

He couldn’t move, he had been nearly paralyzed for weeks now. Months even, of which he could only remember the dark slivers of miserable and painful nights, nights that he was hoping to be over soon. Not for him, but for her. He could almost see the end; he could feel it but he knew that he wouldn’t go before he had left one last trace in the world of the mortal.

This very night, he struggled not to fall asleep and to be himself for just one more morning and one more moment of bright sunshine. Hour after hour, his mind was penetrated by visions of people he didn’t know calling him closer, by the helpless screams of a child he couldn’t recognize and by the sobs of a woman that he felt he had seen before. Mary, his brain helped him and he opened his eyes for a scene he hadn’t witnessed in a long time – an April morning of singing birds and welcoming sunlight. Mary was down in the kitchen, he could hear the clinging of a coffee cup to a plate. He was simply grateful that he had woken up for one, perhaps, last day of life.

He strained his muscles and made himself reach out for the pen and paper lying in the drawer of his nightstand. They have always been there. With an effort, more painful than ever imagined, he took the pen between his fingers and scribbled the words that have been haunting his mind for the past minutes, or was it hours… Letter after letter, he could gradually see them getting more and more illegible, but he was patient enough to write down his thought. He then put everything back into its place, clumsily closed the drawer and relaxing, laid the little note on Mary’s pillow.

A smile crossed his face. It had all been said and done. I can leave now, he thought and slowly closed his eyes one last time taking in the warm sunlight, waving him goodbye.

Minutes later, Mary would walk in and hurry toward the pillow to take the note with a trembling hand. Her eyes would move along the lines of uneven handwriting, while her lips would silently read:

I am not worth any tears; our love is. But our love will live forever.

Smile, and let me go.

I wish too

Dear Santa,

I’ve been good this year and I wish for you to bring me a new Teddy bear…

***

Dear Santa,

I wish for a new bicycle…

***

… a bigger TV set…

***

… a new Barbie doll…

Check. Check. Check…and check.

The old man stroked his beard as he relaxed in his armchair and recalled the night of the 25^th. His eyes went over the workshop and he then let them linger by the fireplace. A piece of paper had caught fire and was slowly turning to ashes. At the sight of it, the man jumped out of his seat and ran to get it. He settled the glasses on his nose, as he tried to make out the unevenly handwritten words.

Dear Santa…,

He tried to recall the letter from the previous night, but he couldn’t. Has he left a kid without a present this Christmas?

I know that I haven’t been as good as my parents have wanted me to be, but I promise I’ll try harder next year. I’ll love them from the bottom of my heart without wanting them to love me more. Maybe I don’t deserve it anyway. But dear Santa, there is only one thing I will be asking for this year: Please make my mom and dad love each other again; make them fight less and kiss more (not in front of me). I want my mom to laugh again and my dad’s eyes to shine with joy. I’m not asking for much, Santa. I just want my family back – happy and together.

I believe in you and I know you can help me.

Truly yours,

Daniel

The old man glanced at the wall and felt his heart ache as the clock stroke midnight and put an end to Christmas. Too late. A new day has come and with it – the time for a little boy to move on.

Miles away, Daniel was sitting on the windowpane in his room, staring into the darkness, hoping for Santa’s sleigh to cross the skyline. In vain. A tear rolled down his cheek as he slowly got on his feet and pressed his finger against the damp glassy surface.

Dear Santa,

I’m sorry I disappointed you.

Tear.

Dear mom and dad,

Please, make up. I love you.

dream on

I walk through the forest

with you hand in hand –

a dream put on silent

that the two of us share.

It’s a cluster of letters,

words thought, yet unsaid;

they float, they surround us –

an encompassing thread.

May be an effort, exhausting;

no, we don’t stop and stare.

Instead we continue,

and together we bear.

Together we are

and together may we be,

for the years to come

that we cannot yet foresee.

It’s long and it’s winding

the road that we’re on

but we know it will take us

to that dream we both own.

all good

A mild August night and I am sitting on the edge of the cliff beneath the silver moonlight, breathing in the salty summer breeze. It was over. You have said it in a phone call. Loud and clear: Goodbye.

I wonder why people keep saying ‘Goodbye’ when my byes have never been anything but bad.

Just like this one.

I should have known better and not been so naive. Long-distance never works; it’s either here and now or it’s not at all. There’s no in-between. 

“Yes, baby, I’ll write you letters…”

No, baby, you won’t.

Bitter is the end of any badly thought out decision and even more so are the tears that I keep crying. But they are slowly drying out, leaving behind nothing but tiny salt crystals on my sides. To be taken away by the breeze.

The night air is soothing and so is the serenity of the place. It’s been years since I’ve come here – the last time with a childhood friend, who has promised to never let me go.

I close my eyes and feel them burn under my eyelids. I give them a moment to relax and as I open them again, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. Fear. Seconds turn into minutes as I slowly turn to face the person behind me. And then a deep breath: two familiar eyes and a friendly smile. It’s been a while since we’ve been here together. I feel like a kid all over again.

Suddenly, everything falls into place: the night, the breeze, the warmth, the embrace.

I let him hold me close as I attempt to make my heart calm down. All’s good, one more time. I have buried my face on his chest, secretly wiping away the tears of joy with his shirt. My fingers have fiercely clung to his back. Slowly, he slides his hands down my body and gently places them on my waist. I shiver. His breath tickles my neck and I feel the urge to pull him even closer.

Instead, he does.

I realize I have never felt safer, but I can’t find the words to tell him. My mind has gone completely blank. He breaths my scent in and moves his arms back up. He takes a step back to lay his eyes on mine and gently takes my face in his hands. His touch whispers Trust me and his look says I love you. I listen to him and fall into his arms once more as his lips press against my forehead. I want the moment to last forever: the two of us on the edge of the cliff, just like years before.

Together. A girl and her friend – a friend, who never let her go.

cool to be on top

Yes, me is who I am and you is who I’m not. And yes, your life is a misconception. And no, you’re so not better.

In the world you live in, you’re God. You’re always right and you’re always great. No one can touch you. Awesome. Just one thing: you’re wrong. Oh-but-I…

No I-s and no but-s. Oh, and no oh-s.

Who are you to tell me how my life is going to go? Who are you to tell me I’m a failure?! Who, the hell, are you to judge me? That I don’t have what it takes, that I’ll never be good enough, that I’m not like you and that I’ll never be?! Well, you know what? I’m glad I’ll never be. Because I…am so much better.

A dreamer, you would call me. Fine, I dream. But at least I go after my dreams. I run. And that’s why I am half way through to them already, whereas you are where again?! Oh, yes: you’re on top of the world, pointing your finger at the ones below you; telling them that they’ll never reach you. That they’ll never be any good.

Fair enough.

And no, not for you. For them, everyone else. Because one day, not too long from now, your world will crumble and your pride will fall to pieces. And you’ll be laughed at; and pointed at. Humiliated. You’ll be coming back but no one will be looking for you. Because this is how life goes: you have to respect in order to be respected, believe in order for others to believe in you.

You need to give in order to take.

You’ve taken a lot from me and it’s time for you to pay your dues. Life’s a bitch, ain’t it? It’s never too late to taste it, so be my guest.

action

His body was burning with desire, quickly losing control. She dominated his mind.

The way she danced across the floor made his fantasies go wild; the way her hair followed every move of hers set his dirty thoughts soaring. Her scent made him high.

He was her subordinate.

His eyes were wandering around the place, tirelessly looking for her. She had gone to get drinks, but it was taking her too long. He was getting impatient. Indeed. The animal instinct within his body was slowly waking up for another night of raw emotions.

A ray of blond crossed his sight, reflecting the shimmering light in the club. She was back and in time to satisfy his needs. He found it hard to control himself. He had clenched his teeth, waiting for the moment to give in to the arousal. His breathing fast.

He was like a vulture about to attack its prey.

She was used to that. It was her job to give men a break from life. The way they wanted it. She has had them all: sweet, rough, gentle, aggressive. Even cruel. Another one wouldn’t have made much of a difference. For her, it was money. For him, it was satisfaction.

None of them really cared.

They didn’t care much while they were at the club table, exploring each other’s bodies with a frantic physical desire. They didn’t even care when his tongue pressed against her neck, down at her chest and made its way back up to her mouth. Or when his hand slid between her legs and then swiftly under her skirt. She was stone cold. Not a single fiber of her body trembled. His, however, was out of control; his lines – distorted beyond recognition.

It was all a big scene and they were the actors.

It wasn’t real when he let her into his apartment and pushed her against the door even before it had completely closed. She moaned with pain. He didn’t care. He tore her top apart and let it slide to the floor; her bra he undid with his teeth. Her skirt wasn’t in the way at all anymore. His eyes were sparkling with perversion. To him, it couldn’t get any hotter. She, on the other hand, found it routine, and even a little boring.

But there they were, in the spotlight. The show was about to start.

No more inhibitions. Not until the end of the night.